Day 13: Ashes

My insides are churning like the cool, salty ocean I traveled today to visit one of the most profoundly intense historical sites in the world. Today, I crossed Table Bay and explored Robben Island. Explored probably is not the right word. I had a guide, and not just any guide. Eddie Daniels, a bright, cheerful, friendly 80-year-old Cape Town native met our group at the Robben Island museum and departure site this morning before we took the ferry to the island. In case the name is not familiar, Eddie was one of the 30 political prisoners on the Island with Nelson Mandela. To be exact, he was prisoner #864 to come to the Island, arriving in 1964 to serve a 15-year sentence for sabotage. This incredible man spent the full 15 years on the Island, lived to tell about it, and agreed to take our small group on a personal tour through what was undoubtedly his personal hell during those years. 

Eddie said many times that he didn't think he would live to make it off the Island. Robben was one of the most brutal prisons, teeming with sadistic wardens, horrid conditions, and back-breaking manual labor. Eddie had joined the Liberal Party of South Africa ("it was the only party that wasn't defined by skin color and opposed the government" note: Eddie is what we would call white, but he identifies as black.), protesting and marching against apartheid, as well as committing the acts of sabotage that eventually led to his arrest and sentencing. As we walked the prison yard and corridors where he spent some of the most painful and dreadful of his 80 years, Eddie spoke of how he slept every night on the cement floor with no mattress, couldn't ever see the stars, and was kept on the back side of the prison so that he could not view Table Mountain and Cape Town. Only once during that time was he able to catch a glimpse of the mountain during his 15 years on the Island, and he described it as one of the most empowering and emotional moments of his imprisonment. 

On the Island, prisoners were only permitted to go to the hospital once. After that, if they fell ill, they were left to suffer. Eddie became quite ill during his term, and lay on the floor of his cell for days suffering. Mandela came to his cell, placed a bucket next to it, sat on it, and comforted Eddie while he was ill. Mandela carried Eddie's own bucket of excrement (that's all they had in the cells) to the yard, where he emptied and cleaned it for him. Eddie was not a member of Mandela's party. In fact, Eddie described himself as a nobody in those times, compared to the well-known political prisoners in his ward; just a guy who stood against apartheid in the only way he knew how. Eddie said that this story characterized Mandela perfectly- a man who constantly gives of himself entirely, without regard for class, status, color, or creed. 

Eddie seemed to take a liking to me. We talked quite a bit, and I sat next to him on the tour bus, as well as on the boat ride home. He told me about his childhood hikes and camping trips on Table Mountain and his travels to Antarctica on whale hunts, how he met and fell in love with his wife, and how when he was released, he saw his son for the first time in 15 years and didn't recognize him. When he left for Robben Island, his son was only a year old, and when Eddie returned, his baby was a young man. I can't even imagine what that must have been like. 

To watch this man traverse the corridors of the prison, to stand in front of the cell that held him captive for nearly two decades, and feel his sheer joy for life and his part in the struggle was intoxicating. His words, his gestures, his broad smile and little jokes filled me with emotion; how could it be that he wasn't vengeful or angry? He would tell his stories, and pause to think, to laugh, or to check and make sure that we were all comfortable, to ask if we had questions... and each time I stepped out of the van and into a new part of his history, he would offer me his hand like a true gentleman to assist me down the step. What I enjoyed most though, was just watching him when he wasn't speaking. The look on his face as we sat beside one another was positively peaceful, and when he wasn't talking, Eddie whistled; no real tune, but what seemed to be just an absent-minded habit to fill the void of silence. I'll always remember it- this man who was tortured and lost 15 years of his life imprisoned by a corrupt and vicious government system, just whistling, smiling, and sharing parts of himself with us. 

Eddie also commented on how South Africa could not have reached the end of apartheid without help from the outside. He talked specifically about Michigan State, and how supportive our institution had been, and the meaningful connections that have been forged between his beloved country and ours, partially because of students like us. A self-proclaimed "nobody," Eddie bathed us in his praises for all of the wonderful things he was sure we would do in our lives and careers, and how the world needed people like us to help lead the march into a better future for all people. I have never been more proud to be a Spartan. 

There is so much more to say about this experience, what Eddie shared, and how much it meant to me, but to try summarizing it would do Eddie and the day an injustice. As we drifted back across the Atlantic toward Cape Town, Eddie told me that when he dies, he plans to have his ashes scattered between Table Mountain and Robben Island- the two places where he has the most happy memories. I will never forget him. Eddie's ability to forgive and move forward to live an amazingly full and happy life is so inspiring, I know I will carry that feeling with me in my heart wherever life takes me.